


Dinner and Drinks

by AQLM



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Conversations, Friendship, Gen, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 20:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17250770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQLM/pseuds/AQLM
Summary: Garrus drags his best friend away from a military dinner for some banter and deep thoughts in equal measures.





	Dinner and Drinks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Renfields_Spider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renfields_Spider/gifts).



As a marine, Shepard wanted to wear his dress blues under three circumstances. One, when he was getting promoted, two when he had gotten married, and three, when he was buried back on earthen soil. Attending a formal event was a necessary evil he had largely managed to dodge with his relentless schedule in the cosmos. Alas, there was no getting around this particular dinner. Not when Anderson had stolen precious minutes with the quantum entanglement communicator to urge him to the Citadel for a veteran’s appreciation event. With a non-forced groan of consternation, he had pulled the crumpled polyester from behind his armor cabinet, smoothed it out, and donned it with the reluctance of a grunt putting on hazmat gear before storming a bunker. 

Steve straightened Shepard’s collar and ended the motion was a fond kiss on the cheek. “I do love it when you go out,” he murmured into Shepard’s ear. “Love the cologne, love the uniform, and love how surly you get. It’s attractive in its own way.” 

Shepard’s half-hearted wave made his husband laugh. He pulled Shepard closer by the lapel of his dress blues and administered a harder kiss that sent a welcome chill down Shepard’s spine. With effort he mustered control of his arousal with a grimace that melted into a smile. It would be much better to spend the rest of the night on the Normandy instead of sauntering onto the Citadel for a dinner he had no interest in visiting.

“Now, remember what I told you,” said Steve, breaking away and sitting on the bed, crossing his legs and placing his hands on his knees in an excellent parody of a grouchy teacher.

Shepard smoothed an invisible lump in his medals down. “Show up, smile when it is appropriate, don’t complain, and if talked to, try banter.”

“Good…and the most important part, remember you’re not there for you.” His eyes softened and he hid is face for a moment. “You’re there for the Alliance. You’re there for the war. You’re there for hope.”

Shepard shook his head. “The best thing I can do for the war is fight it.”

“No. The best thing you can do for the war is make others want to fight it too.” He flapped his hands forward. “Now go off, be good, and I’ll be here waiting.”

\---

He was the focus of attention for only a few minutes. A roaring round of standing applause greeted his entrance with Kaiden, who looked just as put off as he did by the pomp. It continued until he shook curt hands with the various politicians who attended the event and took his seat at the end of the dais. Then the breathless announcer, clad in an evening gown so heavily sequined that it could deflect laser fire, turned her attention to the true special guests.

They came out one at a time, four soldiers, three men and one woman, each in dress blues as rigid and decorated as his. Their faces were etched with military training and they bore no emotion as they walked, or in the case of the young woman, rolled, across the stage and took their places. The introductory message was brief, full of empty patriotism and thanks, before the main event began. 

The true master of ceremonies, a newly-appointed Rear Admiral, stood in front of the lectern as the announcer explained, “In Earth’s past the Medal of Honor was bestowed upon those who immense sacrifices led to military victories that would not have been possible without such valor. We have restored this tradition in light of the Reaper war. We are proud to announce the five recipients of the Alliance’s Medal of Honor, our highest award to those who serve Earth.”

One by one they stepped up before the admiral, who fastened the garishly baby blue ribbon around their necks. Each stood rigid as the announcer gave voice the terrible acts of courage they were forced to perform. Engineer Arnold Richardson, who lay down suppression fire for two awful hours and rigged the bunker to explode when he had run out of bullets, allowing the rest of the research base to evacuate with equipment for the Crucible. Lieutenant Xuan Nguyen whose ship, the Carolina had engaged a frigate crewed by an indoctrinated alliance battalian, eventually ramming and boarding the vessel. All hands were lost but him. Chief Petty Officer Marcus Betters, who commandeered a shuttle and whose small group of soldiers took down two brutes, a harvester, and an entire landing party of batarian shock troopers before being shot down. There they had held the line and extinguished the next two waves of husks before being overrun. He had set up a beacon for an airstrike and dragged one of his crew to safety, leaving two others for when the bomb hit. Petty Officer Laura Bennet, who recognized that a town had become indoctrinated and who evacuated three convoys of supplies as her troop fell around her. She was finally taken down by a husk, who detonated around her, taking an arm and a leg. Yet she still managed to keep the launches from being interrupted. 

Each bore a terrible look that Shepard knew well. Raw grief, rage, powerlessness, carved lines into faces too young to know such sorrow. The ribbon marking lives they needed to sacrifice against an insurmountable enemy. Empty of pride, they accepted the honor nonetheless. The Admiral who affixed the ribbon bore a similar look of pain as she slipped the fastener into place and put her hand on each trembling shoulder in turn. The applause that followed was incongruous but the audience did it nonetheless, soldier and civilian, because sitting in respectful horror would have made the moment even worse. 

Shepard stood when indicated and delivered a clipped speech that touched upon the themes required with military speed. Honor. Valor. Courage. Loss. Appreciation. Mourning. Victory. He had let Dr. Chakwas compose it, with EDI using historical data on the most inspiring human speeches to tweak the wording. The end result was unsurprisingly successful. The cheers and ovations marked what he said even before he finished the last two sentences. Then it was over. 

\--

He stood at the railing of the restaurant, gripping the drink in his hand and watching it bead drops of water onto the plants beneath. The dress blues were stifling, more than even three layers of tech armor, and he found the seam at the back of one leg beginning to itch. He gingerly raised one shiny boot to itch the bend of his knee and nearly dropped his drink as a sharp voice called his name.

“Commander Shepard!” 

This hiss of the motorized wheelchair reminded him slightly of a coolant leak in an ancient ship. He didn’t think that was the correct way to start their conversation. Asking how fast the chair could go also didn’t seem appropriate.

“Petty Officer Bennett,” he said, placing the tumbler down on a table and wiping the condensation off his palm onto his pants as discretely as he could. He gained a precious extra second as she saluted him before they shook hands. “An honor to meet you.”

“You as well, Commander. We’re all glad an Alliance is leading the charge against the Reapers.” She let a sparkle into her chestnut-brown eyes, then leaned forward and dropped her voice to a fake whisper. “Is it treason to ask if Cerberus has a few spare parts from when they built you up?”

His throat seized like a jammed trigger on an old rifle and he could hear Steve screaming, “Banter! Banter!” in the back of his head. Could he really crack a Cerberus joke after everything they did to him and his crew? But this wasn’t the time for bitter pontificating either. But this was a war hero. But so was he.

“How about something a little more state of the art,” he decided. “I have a friend on the flotilla who could probably make you an arm that fired mass effect slugs and played piano better than that clown.” He gestured at the vorcha in a bow tie, who growled and grimaced as he plunked his way through Chopin. 

She smiled politely. “My surgeon said he always hated that joke. People asking him if they would be able to play an instrument after he patched them together. He would occasionally graft a clarinet onto them during the healing process just to get the point across.” His face must have gone blank with shock because she laughed. “A joke, sorry.”

“Though to be honest, Commander? I’d give up another leg if it meant I could have gotten another convoy to safety. Not this arm, though. Still need a hand to pull the trigger, or at least wire up something damn good I could aim and shoot with my teeth.” It was said with a smile but he heard the aching truth behind it. He’d sacrificed most of his men on Akuze to get the job done but what he wouldn’t have given, a leg or an arm or an eye, to bring back just a handful. They though he was ruthless. They never knew.

She wheeled herself away and he took another drink. Alliance marines were hard drinking men and women, or so the rumor went, but he never bought into it. Drinking chased the horrors away in the night and brought them storming back in the morning. Never one to hide, he kept his head. The drink was for show. He’d never put down more than a few sips. 

A clicking of ceramic-infused armor alerted him to the arrival of Garrus. Shepard didn’t turn around as Garrus leaned forward onto the rail, a perfect – albeit taller – mimic of Shepard’s defeated pose. The two men stood in synchronized silence, watching the hovercars blissfully zip through the winding buildings of the citadel. 

“Thought this was a humans-only event,” mused Shepard. “Something about concentrated grieving and focused giving.”

“It is. But the turian one ended an hour ago. Hell, the only reason I went was to get some decent dextro food for a change.” 

“Really? I thought a military culture would love endless speeches, hours upon hours of extolling martial disciplines and lauding heroes.”

“We do, but that requires some of our heroes to make it off planet.” His voice was unexpectedly grim and Shepard winced. “Doesn’t take that long to rattle off a list of honored dead.” Shepard heard Garrus click his mandibles a few times. “Honestly, they would save time if they let the list run in the background while we browsed through the buffet. Could even alphabetize the food to coincide with key family names.”

Shepard snorted and took another fake sip of his alcohol. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he sighed, placing the glass down a table. 

“To a point. Anyway, I figured you’d want an excuse to sneak out. So, like the brilliant engineer I am, I fabricated one.” Garrus made a few sharp gestures. “They let me in because I am providing key intel from the Normandy to its captain.” 

Shepard arched a thin black eyebrow. “And that is?”

Garrus made another gesture and leaned forward. “There’s this bar down in Bachjret Ward, human and turian friendly, very hush-hush, and I know the password.” He straightened abruptly and marched out with turian pride.

Shepard did likewise, nodding to the various dignitaries and sparing a knowing smirk for Kaiden, who hid a resentful glare behind a glass of red wine. The made it out into the body of the presidium and Garrus flagged down a hovercab. He punched in the coordinates and the VI driver sped them off into the whirring roads.

“How’d you hear about this place anyway?”

“Shadow Broker,” answered Garrus nonchalantly. “I did a favor for him a few weeks ago, something about calibrating a piece of equipment to unusually superior specs. In return, I was keyed in to intel appropriate for the enormity of my task.”

“So…you tweaked Liara’s Acolyte and she gave you a bar hookup?”

“Pretty much, though she’s sticking with the Scorpion for now. Something about not wanting to get her hands on anything asari if she could help it.”

“Well, I bet she’d like to put them around Irissa T’Aes’ throat,” replied Shepard. “Councilor’s been stonewalling her left and right. Want to make a detour to the asari chambers to do a little late-night diplomacy?”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Garrus raised a forked hand. “I’ve helped kill one asari councilwoman. That’s enough for a turian lifetime at least.” 

Shepard leaned back and closed his eyes. He could see the Destiny Ascension coming apart in a glimmering shower of fractured adamantium and buckling mass effect fields. Over a thousand asari dead, traded life for life with the human soldiers whose ships made it through unscathed. He never minded throwing an alien life in front of a bullet when it meant a human could fight another day, but mathematically that dreadnaught could have cut apart a Reaper easier than anything the Alliance could assemble. He didn’t make a habit of doubting his choices but that didn’t mean he didn’t think of them.

“Drank too much at the party or doing the old marine trick where you can turn any semi-flat surface into a pillow?” Shepard opened an eye at Garrus, who was patting the side of the hovercar. “Back in my platoon days, this door would have been a more luxurious bed than anyone had seen in months.”

“I’m surprised anyone got any sleep the way you run your mouth off Garrus.” Garrus crossed his spindly arms over his chest in a wounded gesture. “I was thinking about…well, it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is how I’m going to go to a club when I’m dressed like the war’s greatest asshole.”

“I wouldn’t notice. Turian clothing is either body armor or pajamas. Anything in between is too much for us to handle.”

The car touched down in a residential section lined with waxy green plants and streetlights that glowed yellow under the glare of the upper wards. False concrete and squat brownstones replicated relatively well the feel of strolling down one of Earth’s boulevards. Garrus walked up to one of the houses and banged on the scrolled door knocker. A wizened turian woman opened the door.

“Why Garrus Vakarian,” she cried, patting his crest. “I never expected to see you here. How nice of you to visit old granny.” She glanced at Shepard and her eyes narrowed. “Well, if the cost of seeing you is being around this…human…I’ll accept it. Come in, come in.”

They walked into the foyer as the woman bustled away. Shepard glared at Garrus, who smiled a beaked grin.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“Hell of a cover, wouldn’t you say?”

Shepard cocked one bushy eyebrow in increasing disbelief as the woman came back in, patted Garrus fondly on his crest and pressed a panel recessed into the wall behind a statue of the citadel cast in floral plastic. An unseen metal door slid open and a dim blue light illuminated a curving stairwell that vanished into a flickering darkness.

“Come back when you’re finished, dear. I’ll make you orrellian tea. And water for your human friend so he doesn’t die on my rug.” She cast him a stare of concealed loathing from blue eyes deeply set into leathery folds of grey skin, then shuffled back to the kitchen.

“This is insane,” said Shepard, descending after Garrus into the basement. The door behind them slid closed automatically. “How is it a hidden club if a few hundred people are coming to granny’s house every day to go drinking? Who comes up with this stuff, anyway?”

“There are hundreds of these passageways under the wards, actually. Disused keeper tunnels, primarily, but also emergency escapes, underground freight transport, the usual stuff. Someone got the bright idea of creating a final common pathway from various residential areas in the ward. Plus it, um,” he scratched the back of his neck with his hand as he reached the landing. “It forces us to visit our elders. We all get so busy…” 

Before Shepard could make a snappy retort, Garrus was approaching a rivet-lined door with rust crusted over the hinges. Garrus felt around the edges for some sort of entry while Shepard eyed the cramped space with unease. The keepers could easily reconfigure this place as they screwed around with the electronics and they would find themselves boxed in, perhaps permanently. Never a fan of small spaces, Shepard began to sweat. 

After several minutes of fumbling, Garrus pushed his finger into what looked like nothing. A floating square popped out of the wall and queried in an electronic voice, “Password.”

“Let us in, already,” grumbled Garrus, banging his fist on the door. 

“Accepted.” The door swung open and flecks of rust speckled the floor as Garrus ushered Shepard through into the bar. 

It had all the look and feel of a worn down prefab bunker, enough that Shepard expected a geth drone or Blue Suns batarian to pop out and start firing. An incongruous level of decorating had been attached to the interior. Drapes of lush fabric, a brightly-lit bar that would dim a starfield, and dozens of plush couches adorned the main room. The dance floor was off to the side and occupied by many soldiers demonstrating an galaxy-wide inability to hold a beat. 

The music was tastefully loud, enough that you could dance without feeling foolish and still carry on a conversation without ruining your vocal cords. It was more densely populated than Shepard expected, especially given the size of the space. He counted a dozen visible entry point spread around the tube, with hallways splitting off in unknown directions.

Garrus gestured with an expansive arm. “Much better than grandma’s basement.” The two men ambled over to a couch on the far wall and sat down. Shepard fidgeted with the touchpad embedded in the end table, eventually making it through the interface to order the two of them some drinks. From experience he knew Garrus would start with a quarrian beer and end up with a dextro-based recreation of ryncol if the night were bad enough. As an afterthought, he ordered the mixed appetizer platter and hoped this place was clever enough to label which food fell into which category. 

The two men sat in silence, watching the dancers and the monitors. It seemed this was the only location on the citadel that didn’t have a constant feed of the Reaper war. Shepard found it disorienting and welcoming all the same. This didn’t feel like a military bar full of hardened soldiers burning their problems away with whiskey. It also didn’t feel like a hollow escape crammed with people pretending the world wasn’t going to hell. Obviously worth whatever hardware Garrus had tweaked on the Scorpion.

When the food arrived, Shepard scanned his omnitool over the waiter’s waiting palm. The waiter’s clay-covered face registered a surprise that melted to being politely impressed. “Ah. No charge for a Spectre. On the house. Thank you for your service, Commander Shepard.” Shepard bristled at the recognition could couldn’t help but smirk when the waiter turned to Garrus and demanded 40 credits for the rest of his meal.

“Sure, laugh it up,” growled Garrus. “Just remember I’m not the one who has to answer to the council for misuse of galactic funds during a war.” 

Shepard paused and turned towards Garrus. “Do you ever think about what it would have been like if you became a Spectre? If instead of a human Spectre, they’d chosen another turian?”

“Sure. All the damn time when I was back in C-Sec and dreaming of some way out of the bureaucracy. Once I headed out with you, I found I didn’t need to daydream about being a vigilante. I got to live the dream, one dead merc at a time. But yeah, even now…”

“And,” probed Shepard. 

“Well, I certainly would be doing whatever it is you’re doing with more panache.” Garrus made a show of sliding an invisible rifle over his shoulder as Shepard shook his head. “Hard to beat a turian when it comes to shooting finesse and accuracy.”

“Yeah, but…what if Saren struck a turian colony instead. If you found that beacon on the turian version of Eden Prime, do you think you’d chase it? Take your ship and your crew, pursue Saren?” 

Garrus put the imaginary rifle back onto the table. He tilted his eyes up at the latticework of ducts and flickering lamps. “Even as Spectres, turians have a certain deference to authority. I think I would have had more trouble believing Saren was capable of that duplicity, not without years in C-sec making me jaded at damn near everything.” 

“As a turian, the council would have listened to you.” Shepard vividly remembered the stinging rebukes and mockery from the original council when he had come to them with his concerns. Their lukewarm acceptance of Saren’s role and their half-hearted response had proved their downfall. Killing them was an unfortunate but necessary way of saying, ‘I told you so’. 

“Probably, but…,” he scratched the back of his neck with the pads of his fingers. “Udina wanted nothing more than to prove human ingenuity and to humiliate the council into accepting him, not necessarily in that order. Spite can move mountains in the world of bureaucracy. Sparatus would have held back, not made waves.” Garrus shrugged. “Honestly, if turians were leading the way, this war would be half-over.”

Shepard laughed without mirth and pointed a finger at his friend. “Superior turian military tactics smashing the reapers back system by system.”

“As much as we’d like to believe that, no. Turians aren’t unifiers. We’d lead the charge but who would follow? The asari? The salarians? We’d be out of ammo by the second month. Everyone keeps telling you humans are special. Well, they are. You are. But then again…” Garrus leaned back and rolled the beer around his mouth before finishing. “I’m pretty sure you’re tired of being called the savior of the galaxy.”

Shepard rolled the tumbler between his hands, put it down, and fidgeted with the coaster. “I get sick of people blowing smoke up my ass telling me how great it is that I’m leading the charge while doing everything possible to undermine and question my methods. It feels like I’m dragging the galaxy away from its doom and everyone had stuck their boots in the mud.”

Garrus leaned forward and nodded at Shepard. “I agree. I always have. I want you to know I have your back, every fight, every day. One dead husk at a time.”

“Glad to hear it Garrus.” Shepard scoweled. “I wish everyone else did. Seeing those soldiers doing the impossible because everyone above them is too blind to realize the enormity of our enemy pisses me off.”

“That’s what makes you different. That’s why all of us on the Normandy would follow you to hell and back.” Garrus raised his beer. “To making it through this war.”

“To the Normandy,” replied Shepard. “To us.”

Then they drank until dancing seemed like a good idea.


End file.
